Series: Empty Spaces
by Valyssia
Summary: A series of drabbles, ficlets and short stories based on the series. Each chapter contains a new story. *Chiefly Gen with some canon 'ships*
1. Introduction

So, I had this thought. I was considering rewatching the show for the umpteenth million time because it's been a few years since I've seen it.

Now most people who do that will write reviews or share thoughts they've had as they watched. That's the pattern I've noticed. And I could do that, but—

I had this thought.

I believe that there's at least one short story in every episode. I think we've proven that time and again as a community. Instead of reviewing, I'm going to play with that. I have plot seeds for the first three episodes. From there, I won't guarantee anything, but I'll try to squeeze in more as I find the time.

Some of the stories might be 'shippy. Some of them will be silly. My life lacks in silly. I love silly. So silly will probably be a thing. I might spackle a crack in the story. Who knows? I won't promise perfect canon conformance, but I'm going to start with that as a goal. I'd like these things to fit with the mythology without radically altering it. I do that enough in my more ambitious works.

I'm not sure how far I'll get. We'll see.


	2. A Single Step: Welcome to the Hellmouth

**Summary:** Welcome to the worst day of the rest of your life, Buffy.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 800.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Characters:** Buffy.

**Episode** #001: Welcome to the Hellmouth.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

**Author's Note:** This story begins and ends with quotes from _Welcome to the Hellmouth_. The odd material in the breakdown was loosely sourced from The Eurithmics song Doubleplusgood.

* * *

**A Single Step**

* * *

"Come on. This is Sunnydale. How bad an evil can there be here?" The words ring in my ears as I say them. I sound convincing, incredulous even. I want to believe them, but really I don't—not any more than he does. Katharine Hepburn, eat your heart out.

I slip past him and march down the emptying hallway. I can't believe he had the nerve to pin me like that. I still feel his arm in my face blocking my path, the heat of his breath billowing over my skin. I've heard that spiel before. The Watchers Council must be like a finishing school where they take arrogant, priggish, prickly boys and turn them into stodgy, haughty, insufferable old men.

Students scuttle into classrooms as I pass. I envy them their boring lives. All they have to worry about is the algebra test on Tuesday, homework, home life, did they make the team, will that special someone notice them, blah, blah, blah…

My life used to be like that. I miss it. Imagine, there was a time when I loved being chosen, being singled out, being seen as something special. Now I just want to be left alone.

Obnoxious. I can't believe skipped 'obnoxious.' Giles is definitely that. Who here isn't?

Willow.

I consider my answer. Xander and his tiny fence, Giles and his great big book, Principal Flutie and his clean slate, Jesse and his leering, and then there's Cordelia.

It's fair. So, how do I belong here?

That's crazy. I don't—

The bell rings. A fresh wave of searing tension tangles with my spine. My pace doubles. I'm not even sure I'm headed the right way. I don't have my books. I was going to my locker when Commander McBragg waylaid me with handy, helpful tips and tidbits on how to ruin my life; fail school; become a social pariah; suffer repeated, horrible, painful injuries; and eventually—all too quickly—come to a tragic, lonely, sticky, violent end.

And they can't understand why I wouldn't want that. I laugh the laugh of someone who's had enough fun for one day. I wanna go home, wherever that is.

They don't care. All that matters to them is—

Someone keys the P.A., producing a crackly screech that goes on for somewhere between forever and ten seconds. Clueless which, but we may be looking at punitive damages. When the cacophony ends, a stuffy sounding older woman says, "Students, may I have your attention?"

My head pounds a rhythm with the echo of her voice.

"Attention. Your attention, please."

I spot a familiar sign and almost pass it by. Hiding in the bathroom, yeah, that's mature.

"Attention."

I duck inside. The door bangs against its stop.

_Atten – ten – tension._

It almost hits me. I turn out of its path…_ten, ten_…pirouetting as it slams closed.

_Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…_

I snap. The first thing I lay eyes on gets it. The towel dispenser cracks. I hit it again. The faceplate breaks in two.

_Tension. Attention. Your attention, please. _

The part not held by the latch hangs precariously. Slowly, it shifts, tilts and swings.

_Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four…_

The piece finally falls, taking a bunch of paper towels with it. It clangs into the trashcan lid, bounces and clatters to the floor. Paper towels go everywhere.

What a mess.

I should leave. Someone might've heard that.

No. I shouldn't. I can't. Not like this. I need to cool off.

I go to the sink and turn it on. Water swirls down the drain.

I stare.

My knuckles are skinned. I flex my forearm. Blood drips from my hand, leaving a streak on the shiny white porcelain.

I look up. A smudged, tearstained wreck greets me in the mirror. I'm hopeless. I'm not even sure how I got here. One minute, I was in my therapist's office; the next, the greatest hits of 'my worst nightmare' were looping around in my head. She asked me if there was anything I wished was different. That's all.

Another blood drop falls. It drizzles down the bowl to be swept away by the water.

All I did was tell her I wished there was someplace where I belonged. Her face turned gross and I woke up. I thought I'd imagined it. Then I opened my eyes. I was in a strange room with boxes all around. I must've missed leaving the hospital. I missed a lot. No clue when we moved, but the stuff in the boxes was mine, so…

I was afraid to say anything because—

Well, because anything beats being locked up. Even this.

Mom was calling my name. 'Don't wanna be late for your first day.'

I played along. 'No, wouldn't want that.'

How do I belong here?


	3. The Paragon of Monsters: The Harvest

**Summary:** A brief commentary on the nature of women, monsters and angels.

**Rating:** FRC: General Audience: Content Suitable For All Ages.

**Word Count:** 100.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Characters:** Angel.

**Episode** #002: The Harvest.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

**Author's Note:** The mangled quote is from William Shakespeare's Hamlet, though I doubt I needed to point that out. In my mind this is set directly after Buffy meets Angel in the crypt during the episode _The Harvest_. Although, it could fit nicely in any number of places early in season one.

* * *

**The Paragon of Monsters**

* * *

What a piece of work am I, how ignoble in reason, how infinite in flaws…

I spend my time staring at the sun, or as close as I'm able, when I should be at her side. Instead of helping, I trade insinuations and shallow taunts.

What's worse, I know I'm right. I beguiled many a comely lass in my time using nothing more than chilly indifference, keen wit and a sharp tongue.

This one needs my distance more than my help. She'll never become what she must with me mollycoddling her.

I only pray that we make it that far.


	4. Crossed Wires: The Witch

**Summary:** Questions can be dangerous.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Pairing:** This is definitely Willow/Buffy, but it isn't Buffy/Willow. Buffy's clueless, as usual.

**Word Count:** 4,767.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

**Author's Note:** This plot bunny has been sitting around collecting dust since before I started this series. It comes from an idea that Howard Russell had years ago that never came to fruition based on this Xander quote from the episode _The Witch_: "Alright. Into battle I go. Would you ask her out for me? No. Man. Me. Battle."

* * *

**Crossed Wires**

* * *

She's doing that thing. That thing she does where she's right in front of me, but she's nowhere to be found. Something at the end of the hall is more important than me.

I hate that thing. If it wasn't for that thing, this'd all be over. Instead, I got to listen to Xander beat himself up. A day of that would drive anyone to act.

And day after day…?

I sigh. Extreme measures just don't seem that extreme anymore. I need to get this over with. Someone needs to ask.

All I need now is the courage.

I've been trying to tell myself I'm doing this because I'm a bigger person, but that's just not true. I want her to say 'no.' And she probably will because of me. She knows how I feel about him.

So much for my courage.

But what do I do if she says 'no'? What do I do with that information? Will it change anything? Can I break the news to Xander? Can _I_ let him down gently?

No. He'd probably hate me for that.

I can't really advise him either. Trying to steer him would end badly too. If she says 'no,' nothing will change. I'll have to do what I've been doing. I'll listen, I'll support him—though I'm not very good at that 'cause this is the last thing I want—and when he finally finds the courage, I'll comfort him.

I'll know. That's the thing that will change. I'll know that I can have him all to myself…if he ever notices me.

I need to know for sure, so I have to be really honest with her.

But she might say 'yes' if I am. What then?

Well, at least one of us will be happy. I want that. I want for one or more of the three of us to actually be happy, even if their happiness means I'm unhappy. I truly want that.

But I don't. I really, really don't.

My brow's all scrunchie.

She doesn't notice. She's moved on to the next distraction. And I even said, 'Hi.' I acted like I wanted to talk. I was engaging. There were pleasantries. I—

I'm putting this off. I've been over all of the scenarios—all two of them—a zillion times in my head. They haven't changed. I had the same doubts yesterday that I still have today.

I have to believe that this is a good thing. It's the right thing. Besides, he asked me to. He wants me to help.

'Kay, so…moment of truth…and I'm nibbling at the dry skin around my thumbnail. I stop that. It's an icky nervous habit. I need to ask the silly question. We need to talk. Instead of that, she's ignoring me and I'm eating my hand.

I rally my nerve and find my voice. "Buffy." Good start. No squeaks. She even faces me. Now for the hard part. "Would you like to go out, er—?"

"Sure, Will, when?" she replies without missing a beat. She doesn't even have to think about it.

I didn't get a chance. She totally cut me off. My mouth's still open. I shut it.

I was gonna say—I was s'posed to say…_with Xander_.

She wants to go out with _me_?

Of course she wants to go out with me. I'm her friend. That's what friends do. We go out. We see movies. We get coffee. We talk. We listen. We…

So, how do I—?

She's looking at me. Like _really_ looking at me now. Giving me that look—that 'I'm waiting, the clock's ticking, what's up with you, why are you so weird' look.

"I've gotta get to class," she says. Her demeanor positively oozes impatience.

I should add that part—the part about Xander.

"Oh, uh…"

I said that. I didn't mean to say that. I should fess up. I should tell her—

"So, Saturday?" she offers.

"Saturday," I hear myself confirm and can't really believe that I—_I_ was the one who said that. I said it brightly, happily—

She turns away, glancing over her shoulder to add, "It's a date." She even gives me one of those smiles—those cute little half-smiles that are just—

She's a vapor trail.

And I'm still standing here like an idiot. Her choice of words bowls me over. I know it's a common turn of phrase, but I just can't help it. We have a _date_. A Saturday night—_date _night—kind of date. _She_ picked Saturday. Maybe that just means she doesn't have anything better to do.

Maybe, but that doesn't stop my knees from being all gooey. They're doing what they do when she looks at me that way and…

Uh…

Me and my gooey knees turn and shamble through the doorway into Mr. Fulton's English class. It's a miracle I don't bust my butt. He smiles when he sees me.

I say, "Hi," as I pass him on the way to my desk. Or not so much 'say' as 'mumble.'

No one else even looks at me, but I'm used to that. I take my seat—my usual, strategically chosen seat—along the wall and halfway back. The mean kids like to sit in the back. Here I don't have to look at them, but I'm not right up front. Upfront makes me feel exposed. I only have one neighbor and a nice window to look out of. It's a good seat. I do what I can to get by.

And the teachers mostly let me.

I take out my book and the homework that's due and open my notebook to the correct page. I'm ready. Or I look it. The last thing I really am is ready. I stare at my notes and all of the squiggly little colored lines blur.

It's not fair. My heart's still fluttering, there's a lump in my belly and my mouth feels pasty. I should've gotten a drink before I sat down, but walking to the water fountain would've been—

I sat down. My knees aren't so rubbery when I'm sitting.

The desk next to me squeaks. Amanda just sat down too. I wonder if her knees are all wishy-washy.

I doubt it. She's not as silly as I am. She doesn't have two friends and two crushes. That's just me. How can I have two friends and two crushes—both the same—with the same people? Do I just fall for anyone who pays attention to me?

Did Mr. Fulton just say something about the homework?

No, uh…

No, he's talking, but he's not talking about that. I open my book. I think he wants us to do that. I have no idea what page, but I open it and find the next chapter.

No, umm…

I didn't fall for Jesse. He was just a friend.

I s'pose the first one's not all that surprising. I've known Xander practically my whole life. I love him. But I'd love him even if I didn't have a crush. He's just—

He's _my_ Xander. I can't imagine ever being without him.

Ryan taps my back. I turn around and take the papers he offers me, adding mine to the pile and passing it forward.

And Buffy?

There are times when she looks at me and I feel like my whole world might just get better. How can I help falling in love with that?

And I have a date with her.

_Me_.

But what does that really mean? Neither of them knows. How could I possibly talk about something like that?

I can't.

I might tell Xander. Maybe, if things were different. He's the only one I could tell, but he's smitten too.

What would I say?

'I agree'? She's one of the most beautiful, strong, brave, confident, warm, wonderful women I've ever met. She's got this amazing heart. And there's nothing she's afraid of. She just—

She's Buffy. And she wants to go out with me. I have a date with _Buffy_.

The lump in my belly grows wings.

A _date_.

* * *

I catch sight of Xander. It doesn't matter that he's on the other side of the quad and I'm—

No, this isn't weird. Not a bit. Chasing someone down when you're already late for class is perfectly normal, right?

I'm slipping. He's already in the building when I catch up. Just on the other side of the door. I don't quite run him or anyone else over.

"Hey, Buff," he says.

He didn't expect to see me. That part's not all that surprising. I shouldn't be here. But he's happy too. He acts like he's genuinely pleased to see me. That's a little strange, considering the general level of avoidiness.

I reply, "Hey," because that's what I'm supposed to do. I'm s'posed to be friendly, not wiggy and weird. That's what they're doing. I've been everywhere I'm supposed to be—where we usually are together—but I've been there alone. I'm being friendly, not weird. Not even a little. Though, there is one minor flaw in my brilliant plan: I'm now on the other side of campus from where I need to be. I have to make this quick, so I ask my question, "Is it me, or has Willow been acting weird?" My slightly altered question. It's not him. He's smiling. So, it must be Willow, right?

This is all Mom's fault. If she wasn't so determined for me to learn a foreign language, I wouldn't have this problem. I'd be over here with everyone else, not over there in the language lab with all of the overachievers. I'm so not—

He says, "You're gonna have to be more specific," through one of those goofy, snarky, lopsided Xander-grins.

Last year it was German because it was easy to tell her I hated that. So this year it's Spanish. Her idea. And what with the actual usefulness and the lack of strange guttural sounds, 'I hate it' won't be such an easy sell. Next year, if she hasn't given up, I'll try French, 'cause while disappointing her is an issue, I'm as determined as she is. Though my determination is a little bit different. I'm determined not to get saddled with a second year language class. They look like too much work.

Xander said something. I was having a conversation with a friend like a normal person.

_Weird_ he makes me doubt. Just that quick. "I don't know," I admit. Maybe it's just me. I'm probably overreacting. Still, I put it out there. "I've barely seen you guys today." Voicing my concerns is a good thing, right? "And when I have seen her she's been—"

"Weird?"

"Yeah."

Any hope I have that there's a simple explanation gets quashed when he says, "You do understand that you're talking about Willow, right?"

It's pointless to explain. He's as clueless as I am. I should get my tardy self to class. It's just…I have this thing for lost causes…and beating on things that are dead. "Yeah, but this is—"

I stop short when Willow emerges from a cross corridor at the other end of the hall. Maybe I'm wrong. Looks like she's headed this way. But as I raise my hand to wave, she turns around and 'poof' she's gone. "There. Did you see that?" I ask.

"See what?"

No. How would he? His back was turned.

"Nothing," I reply. She was there and gone so fast, I wonder if I saw her myself. There are a lot of people in the hallway. Maybe I just saw someone who looked like her?

No, that was her. No one else would wear that many different shades of pink. Nobody could, not and look that adorable. I think that's why they don't.

Maybe she missed us?

No, she knows our schedules. She knows pretty much exactly where we'll be on any given day. It almost feels like she forgot. Then she thought better of coming this way because she didn't want to run into us.

Err, _me_.

Maybe she forgot something? Could be she had to go back and get it.

Maybe, but probably not. I'm not even s'posed to be here. She saw me and bolted. Ergo, it's me she doesn't want to see.

"This is different," I say. It really is. "It's like she's avoiding me." Did I do something wrong?

Xander 'umms' and 'ers.' He's clueless.

And I'm insecure.

I'm actually being _insecure_—which is like the last thing—

I'm insecure and I'm late. Timing never was my thing. "Never mind," I say. "I need to get to class." I turn to head back across the quad.

And of course, the bell rings before I'm even halfway there.

I'm late and I don't care. I hate feeling like this. I can't imagine what I might've done wrong. Obviously something. Who knows?

Guess I'll find out tomorrow.

I don't even know what time we're s'posed to meet. I'll try to call. If she avoids me, I'll just show up.

* * *

I can't do this. I give up, turn away from the mess I've made, sit down at my desk and take my head in my hands.

She wants some tall, dark, mystery man. What use is she going to have for an awkward, introverted little girl with a complexion like Casper?

A tear splashes my desk when I blink.

I'm a mess.

No wonder Xander doesn't see me.

And she—

She sees me, but she'll never see me that way. It's like, if by chance, someone does notice me, they'll never in a million years find me attractive. I'll always be exactly the opposite of everything they want. Xander wants someone vibrant, beautiful and self-assured. I'm none of those things.

I'm a parody.

Anyone else who notices me laughs at me. All I'm really good for is comic relief. I get nervous and I say the stupidest things. I can trip over my own feet with the best of them. Need a giggle…or someone to do your homework? I'm your gal.

Mostly I'm just invisible.

I take a couple tissues from the box on my desk. The first one goes to dry my stupid eyes and my stupid cheeks. As I blow my stupid nose with the second one, someone taps at the glass in my door with their nail. My nose is so loud I almost don't hear it.

I'm pathetic.

It's Buffy. I don't have to look to know. We have a 'date.'

She taps again.

I'm not ready. I may never be ready.

She calls out, "Willow, please. I just want to talk," breaking my concentration and snuffing my consideration of the most tactful way to tell her to buzz off.

The hurt in her voice makes me feel selfish, cruel and insensitive. I go to the door. I didn't mean to hurt her. Somewhere between my checking to make sure it's her—which is stupid—and my opening the door, she finds a smile for me.

I'm a brat. She's relieved that I'm going to let her in. That's how she looks. And I'm pouting and throwing a fit.

Her smile lasts for a second or two. Prettiest smile in the world and I put it out. Now that's true talent. I'm a _talented_, selfish, insensitive, mean, rotten brat.

I hang my head. Hopefully she won't notice that I've been crying. I'm so selfish that I don't want to talk about it.

She asks, "Are you okay?" Then she sees the mess I've made and changes her tune. "What's wrong?" It looks like a rainbow threw up on my bed. Pretty much all the clothes I own are piled there. I tried them all on. Stupid things. The more I tried, the sillier I felt.

I lie through my teeth, "I'm fine," and step aside, gesturing for her to come in. It's a pretty flimsy lie. I don't sound fine. I sound tired.

I am tired.

And I'm a terrible liar. I guilt too much to lie well. Even the teensy little white ones make my belly feel rumbly.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

I won't lie again.

When I don't answer, she looks from the bed to me in my robe and back again several times.

I skip the rest of the inspection by returning to my desk to mope. That's all I'm good for.

That, and homework…and acting stupid and making people laugh—not with me, but at me. I'm a mean, selfish, absurd parody of a person.

She takes off her jacket. I hear the debate even though she doesn't say a word. She's trying to figure out what to do about me. I'm a problem now—another problem she feels compelled to fix.

And of course me, being the stupid schmuck I am, I feel awful about it. Buffy has enough problems without adding my drama to the mix. But what can I do? I'm stuck. Trying to convince her I'm fine would be fun, now wouldn't it? I'd have to lie my patootie off.

I can't.

I assume the 'sleeping in class' position, using my forearms to cushion my head from the desk. I have a nice view of my lap this way. My robe's soft against my skin and it cuts off most of the light. The pressure and the darkness make my head less throbby.

She moves. My closet door opens. It's either that or the door into the main part of the house. She isn't leaving, though she should. The outside door sounds different. It's heavier and the seal makes this sucking sound. I can't imagine her wanting to have a sit down talk with my mother, so…

It's my closet. The scraping hangers give her away. She emerges, after several minutes of rifling through the dregs, with something I forgot I had. I have to look when I hear her brush past the door. I'm just too curious not to. Which pretty much cinches it: I'm officially bad at everything, even sulking.

I haven't seen that skirt in almost a year. My mother bought it for me last time we went to Arizona. It's one of those. One of the few things I own that she got for me because she wanted me to look like a grownup. Showing me off to her sister is different from school. Heaven forbid that anyone there takes me seriously. We wouldn't want that. But when it comes to family, my mom's all over touting how successful she is, what a perfect daughter she has, a perfect marriage, a perfect life…

Buffy holds the skirt out at arm's length to look at it. I can tell by her expression that she likes it. The silky chiffon fabric has a wild rose print that's still pretty colorful like the rest of my clothes, but it's the 'pretty' kind of colorful, not the 'excessively vibrant' kind.

She brings the skirt to me. "How 'bout this?"

Her tone's so unassuming I can't refuse. I reach out and accept the skirt without meeting her eyes. She goes to my bed to look through my heap as I stand up to dress.

Or half dress. She gave me a skirt. That's half a dress, right?

I wonder what she'll find for the other half.

Curiosity stinks. I want to know, but not enough to watch. Course there's the standard 'we're both girls,' so my stance to stand with my back to her makes me look tetchy and weird. I just don't think I could bear feeling that vulnerable now.

The last thing I need is to hear about how my lips are too thin, or my nose is too big, or my legs are too skinny, or my freckles are too many. Connect the Dots can turn into a game of 'any picture you want' on me. Or there's my widow's peak. That's an old favorite. Count Rosenberg at your service. People are so mean.

Not that I think Buffy would pick on me for any of those reasons, or anything else for that matter. It's just—

I don't want her to look at me 'cause she might give me a look and I—

I'll pass. I put on my skirt and tie my robe closed.

When I sit down, Buffy's opening my dresser drawers one after another looking for something else. I don't have the energy to care. I thought I did.

It takes her a moment, but I guess she finds what she wants 'cause she says, "Here, try these."

I turn around to find her holding out my green cashmere sweater and a white cotton camisole. I accept them. This sweater's more cyan than green. It has a blueish cast like that. She's good at this. The color almost matches some of the leafy greens in the print on my skirt. Similar hue, just lighter. I never would've noticed…which is sad 'cause the sweater even has three little roses embroidered on it near the bottom.

She disappears into my closet again. My first guess is for shoes, but she comes out with hangers. Lots of them.

I'm pretty sure that stealing chocolate from a child would involve less actual guilt than Buffy cleaning up after me. I've never been that evil, so I can only speculate, but it seems like a pretty fair guess. "Buffy, you don't have to do that."

Saying anything is pointless. She just replies with the obvious, "I know. I want to." She picks up a blouse and shakes it out. "Get dressed. It's fine."

Alrighty then. Not much I can do, except turn my shameful, shrunken self around and do as she asks. Doubtless she never meant for me to button my sweater up to my throat. I want to put my robe back on when I'm done, for that additional big frumpy layer of protection, but I know that'd be pushing it.

She's coming out of my closet when I face the room. A third of the mess is cleared away and she has more hangers. She smiles at me before she puts them down. It's that smile again. That sweet little half-smile that makes me feel all gooey. I think it means she thinks I'm cute. I'm not sure…mostly because I can't imagine someone like her finding me cute.

I try to join her in cleaning up my mess, but she waves me off. "Finish getting ready. I've got this."

I should do something at least.

What I do do is what she asked after I hang up my robe. That one small thing makes me feel a little less like I'm completely useless.

Just mostly.

I go to my bureau, take a seat and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face is sticky and gross. I want to wash it, but I need to avoid another run-in with my mother even more. Sometimes I feel like she sits in wait for moments like these when I'm feeling more yucky than plucky. Because what every teenage girl needs to make things better is a little psychoanalysis from their mother. A stringent pad, makeup remover, thingamabob provides a compromise. I get to deal with the worst of the salty slimy mess in a mom-free environment. Between that and some moisturizer, I look okay. Not great.

Almost human.

Accentuating the human with colorful pigments sometimes helps, or so I hear. As I prepare to paint on a happy face, Buffy asks, "So whatcha wanna do tonight?"

"I don't know."

My reply is less than enthusiastic, so much less so that it's met with the clack of hangers and the rustle of clothing. That doesn't bother me so much, other than that's just another reason for me to feel guilty. She's trying to be friendly and I'm being a big ol' party pooper. I wonder if she'll get sick of me.

Wondering that makes me feel sick of me.

I don't need to wonder how that would go. I'm not new to being lonely.

Dwelling doesn't help either…and trying to put on makeup when you're weepy is really counterproductive, not to mention messy. I take a tissue in hopes of wiping away a black smudge from beneath my right eye. My hands are shaking, so taking it off goes as well as putting it on. I give up even trying to clean up. If I don't, I'm gonna end up looking like Jackson Pollock made up my face.

There's nothing for it, except to hang my head and let go.

Drip.

Sniffle.

Drip.

Shudder.

Drip.

She interrupts my fretting by resting her hand on my shoulder.

I raise my head and the contact ends. That's worse. I want to say so. I want to tell her that just that little bit of compassion made me feel better. It helped. Trouble is, every bit of me feels thick and wooly all the way down to my toes. It isn't easy, but I swallow. The lump in my throat doesn't budge an inch. Mumbling, "No," is more than I can manage. My voice breaks. I sound like a frog.

She misses my meaning. Somehow I catch her arm as she tries to leave.

"No, you're fine."

That wasn't much better, but at least I finish my thought. As I let go of her arm to reach for a Kleenex to dry my eyes, she touches me again. It's the same simple gesture. The only thing affectionate about it is her intent.

I find the courage to look up. Naturally, because she asked me to make it better, I made it worse. That's how this is supposed to work. I'm opposite girl, backward is forward, right is left and good somehow always turns bad around me, so instead of us having fun together like normal friends would, I get stupid and sullen.

My eyes are too puffy. I think it's a lost cause, but I have to try. An icepack wouldn't hurt a bit, but leaving my room still sounds like an awful idea, so I make do. And as I do, something kind of wonderful happens. She starts to play with my hair and we fall into this thing—a rhythm of sorts. I like it when someone else brushes my hair. It reminds me of when I was little, back before things got so complicated. With me distracted, everything else gets better and before I know it she's urging me to turn around on my stool.

I get another smile for my trouble. She wants me to stand, so I do. I look down as she unbuttons the top button of my sweater.

"Xander's a really sweet guy," she says. Her hands move lower. She unbuttons another button. "Not very smart, but sweet." She looks up at me, grins and moves to the next button. "What do you expect? He's a teenage boy."

My mouth is dry. The 'unbuttoning' is a weird, suggestive, intrusive… It doesn't help.

She doesn't seem to notice. My sweater's half open when she finishes. I follow her lead and she turns me around. "His loss," she says with a smile.

I look at myself in the mirror 'cause that's what she wants. She put my hair up. My makeup looks okay. I guess _I_ look okay.

It's apparent from her expression that she thinks so.

"Now what do you want to do?"

* * *

I feel the nervous energy rolling off her as she fumbles with the door lock.

She was fine until we got back here.

I've done everything I can. She knows it's not all bad. There are people who care.

We had a bite to eat, saw a show, had coffee…and for awhile she was okay. She laughed and she smiled. We talked. It was good.

Weird she insisted on paying for everything. I tried, but she said she invited me out so she should pay. I felt so bad. It's not like either one of us has tons of money. We're teenagers. We're not supposed to. So I guess next time I fight fire with fire by asking her out.

I just wish I knew what was wrong with her now.

She opens the door to her room. I expect her to invite me in, but instead she gives me a quick peck on the cheek. And just as quick, her door shuts and she's gone.

I guess that's it. She's such a strange girl. I turn and walk away.

Sweet, but strange.


	5. It's a Glamorous Job: Teacher's Pet

**Summary:** Forked Guy meets his match.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 300.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Characters:** Buffy, Giles.

**Episode** #004: Teacher's Pet.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**It's a Glamorous Job…**

* * *

"I'm unclear on one point," Giles said as he strode around the table to seat himself across from Buffy. "The vampire you faced was reported to be a fearsome foe. How did you best him so quickly?"

The gang was settling in for a post-slayage confab. That had become a thing.

Buffy would've preferred to just head home. _I need to make this snappy._ _Mom's gonna miss me soon, if she hasn't already._ "Well, y'know, he did his thing and I did mine."

As usual, Giles displayed all the emotional range of Keanu Reeves, plus a quirked eyebrow. _Never a good sign._

"So, he attempted to kill you and you critiqued his wardrobe?"

"No," Buffy replied with a smirk. "But close." The clueless act really worked for her, so she laid it on thick. "Fork guy raked his claw along the wall—the way bad guys with pointy, pokey metal things instead of hands always do." Careful to be discreet, she pulled a can of hair spray from the bag in the chair beside her. "It's practically a horror movie staple. I heard him coming a mile off."

No one, not even Willow who was seated right next to her, noticed the lighter Buffy slipped from her pocket. "So I damseled it up, 'cause, y'know, that's what he'd expect." _This is so Saint Emo's Fire._ _I should be ashamed. _Careful to point the spray in a safeish direction, she produced a quick poof of flame. "You'd be amazed how the 'fearsome' rubs right off a vamp with a little conflagration." She dropped the can back into her bag, pocketed her lighter and shrugged. "I put him out, tied him up and dragged him with."_ And I didn't 'hone' once._

Reducing Giles to a simple, "Oh," was so worth the hassle.


	6. Owen Who: Never Kill a Boy

**Summary:** A minor character fades into obscurity.

**Prompt** #287: Surely the bitterness of death is at hand **tamingthemuse**.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 840.

**Beta:** Howard Russell & The Lady Merlin.

**Character:** Owen.

**Episode** #005: Never Kill a Boy on the First Date.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Owen Who?**

* * *

As I jiggle my key in the sticky lock, the doorknob rattles.

Heavy footfalls sound from behind the door. I want to breeze through the house on the way to my room, but it sounds like the Colonel has other plans.

The tumbler turns, and then the knob. My key slides out. The door swings in. As I pocket my keys, he meets my eyes. His graven face is bent in a scowl.

"Son, we need to talk."

In all of the English language, those five syllables are my least favorite. They're five syllables of pure hell and he delivers them in the least promising way. Any hope I had of spending a quiet evening alone just vanished.

The Colonel holds a folded piece of notebook paper in one hand. Red ink bled through enough when the 'A' was written to give me a clue to what it is. He has one of my homework assignments.

Okay, I'm confused. How can this possibly be about school? I'm in the top three percent of my class.

Duty, honor, discipline, and sacrifice are the platform on which he's built his life…and shaped the lives of everyone else around him. It's my duty to perform well academically. Doing so honors my family. I learned that lesson a very early age.

He turns away. I follow him into the front room where my mother waits. Before he takes his seat, he hands the paper off.

I unfold it and read:

Martyred by good intentions,  
She cannot understand.  
Her eyes are filled with sympathy.  
Inspiration fades.

She turns her back and walks away.  
Shadow washes over me.  
I wither to obscurity,  
A single word, my sentence.

Death in all its bitterness,  
Must surely be at hand.  
Forsaken, I shall ever be,  
By the title friend.

The fact that he read that makes me feel violated. It was none of his damned business.

Chances are he didn't even understand it. Explaining it to him wouldn't help at all, not that I would. He wouldn't care that I was dumped by a girl, and then drew on the experience to write a poem for a homework assignment. The Colonel has no use for poetry or art. He finds them frivolous.

It stands to reason that they'd be everything I love. I've kept that facet of myself locked away. My prisoner comes out to play when he isn't around.

Funny, I had a feeling that Buffy would appreciate the duality of that. It seemed like she—

"Your mother and I are worried about you," the Colonel says. "We had a meeting with Dr. Shaw this afternoon. She agrees that you have an unhealthy fascination with the macabre."

They went to see my therapist?

_Great_.

Here I thought my mom was trying to help. She knows how difficult living with the Colonel can be.

Yeah, but that doesn't mean she wasn't. She may very well have had good intentions. That wouldn't stop him from taking the opportunity to twist them.

I used to think my father was a hero, but time hasn't been kind to my image of the Colonel…probably because there's a fine line between just ruler and ruthless dictator. He tiptoes around that line a lot.

My mother and I are his troops. His word is law. So, I translate when he goes on to say, "We've agreed that Hargrave would be a better environment for you." By 'we' he means him.

The soldier in me knows that I should stand at attention when the Colonel is addressing me. I can't. He's talking about shipping me off to his alma mater in Virginia. Under the weight of all that implies, my legs won't support me. As I slump onto the bench of my mother's piano, my attention comes to rest on a small leather bound book on the table between my parent's armchairs. He has my journal.

He has no right! I meet his eyes and communicate that opinion with a glare.

He pays me no mind. "I've spoken with Brigadier General Bloome and he's willing to take you on as a late admission."

Inside me, my prisoner rattles the bars of his cage. He wants to rage at the injustice of it all. He wants to march up to the Colonel and punch his lights out.

"You should be proud, son," the Colonel says. "Your academic record had as much to do with that as my influence."

Somehow I manage to keep my temper, though it threatens to burn through my skull. I just know how my father's mind works. Nothing I could possibly do or say now would change a thing. Conflict would only cement this course of action in his mind. He would view my outburst as irrefutable proof that he's doing the right thing…and I want to deny him that pleasure.

"We've thought long and hard about this and I truly believe that it's for the best."

I'm sure you have. The prisoner inside me wants to salute.

I don't.


	7. Absolute Zero: Reptile Boy

**Summary:** How bad can a piece of fanfiction that's based on a truly terrible pun be?

**Prompts: **#312: Catch-as-Catch-Can at Taming the Muse & manthk's request at The Awesome Ladies Ficathon and Art-a-thon 2012: Set during the high school years. Willow fantasizes about Cordelia and is conflicted about it.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 759.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell.

**Character:** Willow.

**Episode:** #017: Reptile Boy.

**Pairing:** Anything that's there is purely subtext.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

**Author's Note:**The only thing that roots this to the episode is Cordelia hanging out with Buffy. I don't plan to make using so thin a connection a habit. I just thought the piece was cute. It adds variety to the series.

* * *

**Absolute Zero**

* * *

A frozen mass in a sea of swarming bodies, I felt locked in. They orbited my station near the door. Some moved purposefully, others swaying, shimmying, bobbling and gyrating to the synth-laden thump-a-thumpa that overwhelmed the room. Thankfully the bad lighting was working in my favor. No one had noticed me. Being terminally ordinary wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

By 'no one' I mean 'Cordy and Buffy.' No one else in the innocuous mish-mash of sometimes familiar faces concerned me. They concerned me _lots_.

And this was all Cordy's fault! Or the fault of her fashion sense, or—umm…the shiny strips of insubstantial cloth she had on that almost passed for a halter top. I just had to go and have a random, silly, shameful thought about the likelihood—what with all the undulating—of seeing 'Cordy in the buff.'

That had been troubling on a 'collision of the theoretically impossible unstoppable and immovable objects' sort of scale, mostly because the idea had somehow misplaced its adjective. A split second after it had been inspired by lots of sexy jiggling, mental trickery and hideous punnyness had transformed a state of being into a human being. A beautiful, wonderful, uniquely special _bonus_ human person who in my broken, kaboomy, booby-trapped brain, Cordy had no right to.

After that deft act of self-sabotage, I should've just gone away. I would've if it hadn't been for—

They were here _together_, or sort of, seemingly, somewhat together. Cordy needed to keep her grubby, yet meticulously manicured mitts off. She had her own friends back before she started weaseling her way into my life. These were _my_ friends. It was hard to imagine even her being that petty.

No it wasn't. Cordy's _evil_.

But Buffy belonged to _me_, which was silly—what with the teensy problem of people belonging to other people. Stuff like that didn't happen in a reasonable, rational world.

That hadn't stopped me from having the thought in addition to all the other thoughts that were making me feel like a nudist at a nunnery. Pretty pieces of flesh bouncing, half covered by flowy, sparkly cloth, must be hypnotic if studied too long. My mind wasn't set for reasonable or rational or anything even neighboring logical anymore. All that had gone bye-bye, giving way to brain spin, thoughts churning like confetti in a vacuum. The resulting heat wave made my face feel and probably look like the burner of a range turned up to boil water for tea.

Tea sounded good.

Tea wasn't going to happen. Tea would be, as Giles often said, 'soothing.' Nothing soothing was apt to happen until I found the sense to beat feet, skedaddle, run away…flee in _shame_. Deep, crippling, thick, black, hideous shame. The sort of shame that would happen if Buffy noticed me right now. She'd doubtless ask, 'What's wrong?'

_Shame._

Looking had always meant trouble. Seeing and being and doing had gone so far awry this time that I couldn't even find the sense to avert my eyes. I was still _looking_. And Cordy was _still _acting like a shameless hussy. In heat. Cruising for a stud. That was nothing new.

It was embarrassingly jejune, but I was still waiting for her to waggle her boobies just the right way. They were bound to pop out of that skimpy top eventually. It was an inevitable certainty, like Xander needing help with math. He usually needed so much help with math that I did his math. Cordy's boobs wouldn't need that much help.

What with happiness being so catch-as-catch-can, missing something that could be both that pretty and funny at once seemed a shame.

_Shame. _

The actual watching was umm… Why'd such an awful person have to have such nice boobies?

I had a theory once that only mean girls got nice boobies. It was like the titty fairy actually seemed to be passing the nice girls up. Buffy had singlehandedly disproven that. Just the idea Buff in the buff was troubling enough. The pun—which could've been doubly punny what with the buffness of Buff—made it that much worse.

Cordy insinuating herself into the picture had threatened to short circuit my brain for good. Poor curious thing. I wasn't even consulted. It just scuttled off like a toddler in a minefield.

It was a purely creative exercise. Sort of. An exploration of the 'inness' involving cataloging mutually shared, not gender specific pokey parts that could replace other unavailable anatomically necessary—

Creative exercises might be the death of me.

That'd serve me right.


	8. Kinda Pretty: Gingerbread

**Summary:** Seeing that Bunny girl is pretty important to Willow.

**Rating:** FRC: General Audience: Content Suitable For All Ages.

**Word Count:** 100.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Character:** Willow.

**Episode** #45: Gingerbread.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned any of these characters, the last three seasons would've made sense.

**Author's Note:** I'd like to accredit Kyra Cullinan for creating the image that became the inspiration for this drabble.

* * *

**Kinda Pretty**

* * *

I won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. As I run to my room, she calls after me, "Can't you see? I just want what's best for you." I slam my door. "You'll make new friends."

She doesn't know me at all.

I go to the air conditioner vent and remove the cover. Good. The book Amy loaned me survived their awful crusade.

I hate to think she was right, but I don't see another way.

Turning to the marked page, I look at the picture. The flower looks harmless. Just a common thistle. It's even kinda pretty.


	9. Fishwife Blues: The Zeppo

**Summary:** Never trust a sullen witch. Unlike dragons they don't care about ketchup.

**Prompts: **#309: Under the table at **Taming the Muse **and #012: Jealousy from Table B (modified) at **Lover 100**.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 1,278.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell.

**Character:** Willow.

**Episode** #47: The Zeppo.

**Pairing:** Speculations and snitful musings concerning Buffy/Willow and Buffy/Faith.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

**Author's Note:** I anchored this to _The Zeppo _by mentioning the Sisterhood of Jhe, however it has almost nothing to do with that episode. Place this chronologically before then by just a smidge.

* * *

**Fishwife Blues**

* * *

My back aches from sitting on the floor. The shelf behind me that's been threatening to split me at the diaphragm hasn't been much help either. I want to go home, but I can't. I'm the only one besides Giles who's working, not just pretending to work. Again, as usual, we're stuck. We can't do anything without first understanding what we're doing.

The words on the mottled parchment blur. My head swims. Smudgy black dots and squiggles cloud senselessly. 'U' becomes 'double-u.' I see one, two, three, more…waves on an ocean as illustrated by me when I was three.

I'm exhausted. Either that or Xander was right and bibliophilia really is a disease, not just a fun obsession.

Happy tittering draws my attention from the heavy, musty tome in my lap. It's Buffy. She's still doing a lousy job of pretending. The pile of books in front of her hasn't changed since the last time I looked. I glance at my watch trying to recall when last I checked on the slayers, primary and adjunct.

I have no idea. I've been ignoring their bubbly chatter for going on what seems like forever. Giles only possesses so much potential glower power. He went to his office. I don't have an office. That's why I'm over here and not there in a comfy chair. They were making me crazy.

They _are_ making me crazy. So crazy that learning anything new about the Sisterhood of Jhe has been impossible. All we know is that they want to open the Hellmouth—which is generally a bad idea—but that's just a 'where.' Knowing 'when' and maybe 'how' might be useful.

I glance at the ones responsible for pooping the research party, catch a glimpse of something, blink, double-take, stare. Under the table, partially obscured by chair legs, I saw something that now that I've seen it, I think I only thought I saw it. It doesn't make sense. Buffy wouldn't rub her foot—her sandaled, mostly-naked foot—against Faith's completely naked leg.

Not that Faith's naked. Faith's legs are naked. Faith's wearing shorts, which is plenty of nakedness where she's concerned. She's hopelessly pretty. Like so pretty that someone like me has no hope of being noticed when she's around. She doesn't have to be naked. Just her cleavage is enough to distract most people.

Faith gives Buffy a post foot-action glance that suggests she wants to ravish her. I wish that was new. Actually, I wish that _wasn't_. Faith has given the very same salacious look to almost everyone who's anyone to me. Flirting and Faith go together like death and taxes, or school and cheerleaders, or many other things that complement without being complimentary.

My stare becomes a glare, transmuting to a glower worthy of Giles. I glower for a long time without as much as a glance from the sisters slayer or another glimpse of footsie action. For my part, it's an Olympic act of sulkery. Their part is much less impressive and giddy.

I give up.

* * *

I gave in.

The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that I saw what I saw. They were playing _footsie_. Or more accurately _Buffy_ was playing footsie with _Faith_. The very thought curdles my cream. There's only one reason people play footsie. It's not a game friends play, unless they want to go through endless drama and humiliation.

'Nag' turns to 'pang' and back again. I rest my head on my arm, uncomfortable as ever. The ground is cold and crouching hurts.

That doesn't matter. I need to know for sure what's up with Buffy so I can work out what this all means. If it means what I think it means, then the rest should be self-evident. If Buffy was playing footsie with Faith, that means that she likes girls, or at least one _girl_, which suggests that she can like other girls, which means that those few times—the times when we've been together and feeling really, _really_ together—I might not have been the only one who was wondering about kissing and…

Umm…

That's hopelessly optimistic and just as convoluted, but that doesn't change the fact that I need to know. That's why I'm in a graveyard after dark, like an idiot, pretending to be part of a bush. I need to know so badly that I'm cold, wet and unhappy and I'm still here.

I'm doing a pretty good job of pretending. I know. I tested. I watched the mating dance of the bubble-breasted New England slayer from a dark corner of the Bronze. That's what convinced me that I wasn't imagining things. No one goes to that much trouble to flaunt themselves without wanting something. I might've changed my mind if she hadn't spent most of the night jiggling her abundant flauntables at Buffy. There were boys of course, but the flirting and the flaunting always came back to Buffy.

Now Faith's just sitting there with _my_ friend, each of them on matching tombstones. As they talk, the fishwife flips her hair, laughs her insufferable devil-may-care laugh, smiles her insidious smile, bats her thick lashes…

She hasn't given up flirting. It isn't just a hobby for this hussy, it's practically a vocation.

Worst of all, there's return flirting. Buffy's not as blatant, but—

Is this a date?

Movement draws my eye.

Dates with vampires. That's nothing new for Buffy. With Faith around, it goes a little differently. There's much flipping, rolling, falling, punching, kicking and poofing, the whole kit-n-kaboodle. Ash fills the air. It's very exciting to watch, so exciting that I don't have much time to thank my lucky stars that the vampires didn't notice me. Not that I'm very noticeable with my new goody. No one noticed me at the Bronze. In fact, I was so totally unmemorable that I couldn't even order a drink. The counter girl kept forgetting me.

Being invisible, or the closest thing to it, didn't feel all that new. I'm kind of used to being ignored. I clutch the pouch of leafy goodness that hangs around my neck. This just makes that more likely. It emphasizes my own natural blahness.

Sometime during my reverie, Faith went from fighting vampires to fighting Buffy. All of the vampires are gone now. More flipping, rolling, kicking and punching occur. Watching these two is exhausting. They make slaying vamps look like artistic gymnastics. Fighting each other is just—

Buffy shouts, "What's wrong with you?" A reasonable question to be sure.

Faith snaps in answer, "Oh, c'mon, B. Don't you ever let loose?"

This is the first thing I've heard them say all night. I need to really work on my snooping skills. I get high marks for sneakiness, but everything I gain there is pretty much lost when it comes to actual snooping.

Faith shouts something else. I miss it. I do get that it wasn't a popular remark. That much is obvious because Buffy hits her. More tumbling and clobbering ensues.

I wonder what the heck Faith meant. To my mind Buffy's been 'letting loose' all evening. Yes, she's more reserved. That's because she's not a hussy, you great big hussy!

They tussle some more. All I see are feet. The top feet become Faith's feet for a moment and it happens again. This time I know I'm not imagining things, until it's over and I think I read too much into it. There's nothing substantive about a tilt of the head, but I swear it looked like she was kissing Buffy.

I expect more shouting. None comes. They're leaving and I'm—

I—

Darn it!

I hate Faith.


	10. Glass Heart: Bad Girls

**Summary:** This has probably been done a thousand times. Let's make it one-thousand and one.

**Rating:** General Audience: Content Suitable For All Ages.

**Word Count:** 100.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned any of these characters, the last three seasons would've made sense.

* * *

**Glass Heart**

* * *

Her fingertips touch the steamy windowpane. They move together, parting, each leaving opposing, sweeping strokes, around and down.

As the heart takes shape, mine does this funny, fluttery thing in my chest. It's so weird.

She slashes at the doodle. No point. No feathers. An artist, she's not.

I don't get her.

She smiles at me through the unclouded pane to her left.

And somehow, suddenly that matters less.

My friends' stares feel heavy on my back. I look down at all the meaningless lines and squiggles on the page, then back at her.

Decisions just don't get any easier.


	11. Peanuts: Fool for Love

**Summary:** What's love got to do with it?

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 1,156.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell.

**Character:** Dawn.

**Episode:** #85 Fool for Love.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Peanuts**

* * *

A series of quick, clumsy clicks, scrapes and squeaks come from the kitchen, inspiring my heart to bobble in my chest like a yoyo in the hands of a hyperactive child. I don't know why my instincts go all whacky. I just know that something's wrong with a capital 'ruh,' no 'wuh' because that would just be silly. The noises are off. There are too many thuds. It's—

Buffy's home. I leap from the couch. She's in trouble and so am I. Sort of. The coffee table doesn't quite reach out and swat me. At least I don't think so. It's close. For an instant my left shin has my undivided attention, or the sharp, hammer-handy thwap that sets it on fire does. I get over trying to clutch my leg before it lands me on my butt and half-hop, half-jog from the living room, through the dining room, toward Buffy who's—

She's late. She's like that, always making us worry. I guess that figures since she's the only one in the world who matters.

For some reason I think seeing her will help. Thinking like that was totally wishful. My tummy joins the fracas with the yoyo action when I do. She's all hunched over, clutching her gut, hugging it, like she's trying to hold something in. I don't want to think what that might be. Something's really, really wrong, but nothing looks wrong, except for the hunching.

Did she hurt her back? Is she trying to imitate Mrs. Spunkelcrief from down the street to get some extra attention? It's weird. I know she isn't, but part of me still wants to think it's happening, like I always knew it would. I knew she'd—

Just past the doorway, I stopped moving. I should be. I should go to her and do—

I don't know what to do.

The backdoor's open and it's totally full of her shadowy, shadowish boyfriend. Where there's one, there's always the other. How'd I miss him?

I should call an ambulance.

"Dawn?"

I'm not sure if I said that last thing, or if she heard me. She said something. The same old something. I should say something, so I repeat myself, almost,_ maybe_, "Should I call for an ambulance?"

Not that it does any good. She croaks, "No," all adamant, almost before I finish.

_Unbelievable. _She's hurt. I mean, it's obvious, right? Riley looks like he wants to agree with me. He like actually meets my eyes. There's agreement, and even an abbreviated nod. Buffy's being crazy.

She says, "I don't want Mom to worry," like that's perfectly reasonable. Like Mom wouldn't worry if Buffy bled to death, or passed out, or whatever on her kitchen floor. She'd totally wig.

My jaw's kind of dragging the linoleum. I'm kind of staring, like I'm the idiot when the idiot in this situation is so clearly Buffy. I shut my stupid mouth, gather up the tattered scraps of my dignity and turn my back on Hart to Hart. Degrassi will be so much lower drama than them.

My leg lobbies a violent protest to every step of my return trip to the living room. It makes me grumpy. I flop down on the couch just in time for a commercial break. All I can do about it is sigh and try to resist the urge to buy fabric softener. It's hard. The stereotypical mom-type they hired to sell the stuff is pretty persuasive. Somehow I hold out.

"I'm fine," Buffy wheezes. "We'll be upstairs." She doesn't look fine. Looks like Riley's the only thing that's keeping her on her feet, but whatever, she doesn't want to share, I don't care to push, yada, yada, yada…

A couple moments later, the sounds coming from upstairs pretty much label her statement total bullpoop. The bathroom cabinets each open about half a dozen times, paper rustles, plastic things clunk together. Those are all fair clues, but the best one by far is the total lack of chatter. Buffy isn't running her mouth. That's probably a sign of pending apocalypse or something.

I wait until I just can't stand it anymore. Michelle and B.L.T. are squabbling again. I wish they'd hurry up and breakup. Meanwhile in the really real world, Buffy and Riley are holed up in her room doing—I'm not even sure what. I heard the door shut, so that first part's conclusive, the rest is totally up for speculation.

I'm not much for speculation. Not when snooping is so much more productive. And fun. I get to be sneakier than the slayer, which is pretty cool. And I get to find things out. Stuff I'm 'way too young' to know about. It's a win all around, unless I get caught. And then all she can really do is yell at me. She does that anyway, _so_…

I don't even bother to go upstairs. The door's shut. I won't be able to see anything, and what with the moratorium on talking, with Buffy being whatever she is, wounded I s'pose, but I still don't really know. The only way I'm gonna know is….

I breeze through the house and out the backdoor. Not that my leg doesn't hurt. It does. It's just that between breezing and stumping, breezing is way less noisy. There's a ladder in the little garden shed out back. I go for that because it's so much easier than climbing a tree like she does. It takes me a few to get set up without making a bunch of noise. I've done this before, so I kind of know the 'what' and 'how.' That doesn't spare me a couple of cringe-worthy moments. Nothing too bangy. I don't give myself away.

The ladder's just tall enough. I peek over the window sill and get lucky. The window's closed, the curtains are open. Perfect. They can't see me, but I can see them. It's hard to tell what Riley's up to. He's kind of in the way. I mean, it's totally obvious he's doing his field medic thing with the bandages and bloody gauze on the little table beside the bed. That part's pretty gross. It takes a moment or two for him to reach for something, turn just right and—

I'm _still_ not sure what he's up to. It's _still_ pretty gross, so gross I almost fall off the ladder. This is like something from a movie, with the special effects and the gory makeup. It's hard to believe that it's real—that that's my sister. Either he's stitching up her belly or he's taking a stab at amateur cartography, or both. That scar's gonna look like the Strait of Gibraltar.

I've seen enough, which is sort of good what with the car turning down our street. I think that might be Mom. Sounds like her. Someone needs to run interference, give them time, act surprised, play along…

I'm so unappreciated.


	12. Another One Closes: Crush

**Summary:** A train. A song. A body count.

**Prompt** #289: Celestial **tamingthemuse**.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 575.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Character:** Drusilla.

**Episode** #92: Crush.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Another One Closes**

* * *

The steel sings a long piercing note. My shiny, sterile prison rattles and clatters and chatters and bucks. The guards were sleepy and other others prisoners too. I'm alone with Miss Edith. She whispers the sweetest things. The music has ended. She wants me to make more.

Before the others lay down, they played the loveliest tune. Their hearts pitter-pat. Screaming, fretting, mewling…

Lemon drops and candy canes, they melted in my mouth.

The cage door opens with a screech and a whoosh. Fresh air pours in.

A nasty man calls out, "Sunnydale Station! Last stop this line." He's here to hurt me.

I scurry into the shadows like a little mouse.

The steps creak. Nosey man. He lumbers up the aisle toward me. He's come to the dance, but he's worn the wrong tie. Naughty, naughty. Tin badges and starched blues. A soldier, like the ones who defiled my precious boy.

He's about to learn. This mouse has teeth.

I coil.

He creeps.

I spring.

He screams, "Oh god! Oh please!" Naughty little Tommy tries to scamper away.

Miss Edith laughs and claps her hands.

I snare him. Thrashing, tugging, wailing, "Help me! Somebody please! Help me!" All flailing limbs and nummy fear. I string him up by his tie. He should've worn a bow. He wriggles and writhes, like a worm on a hook.

His legs dance a clumsy jig as I bite down. An overripe peach, his juices spurt down my throat, warm and lovely. I lap and suck and squeeze, wringing the wriggle right out of him. I let go. He dangles there, a marionette tangled by its wires. All twisted joints, bugging eyes and lolling head. Another tin soldier to fill the coffer.

Delighted, I sashay down the aisle. A chill hits my skin, my first breath of freedom in hours and days and weeks. Miss Edith stays behind to keep watch. She'll let me know when the shrew discovers the pretty picture I made for her. I whirl and twirl, looking up. My beautiful stars swirl like celestial soup in a great iron pot.

I stop, facing the giant metal coffin that brought me here. Song fills me, bubbling up and brimming over. _"The Sandman's coming in his train of cars…" _I shimmy and sway._ "…with moonbeam windows and with wheels of stars." _

The songs are all mine now. There's no one else left to sing. Daddy's lost. And my darling, daughter - grandmummy despairs. I must find my prince. Only he can mend our happy family. He was the bravest knight in all the land, but his mind has been poisoned.

My heart breaks for him. Poor dear boy, he's so confused. He needs my help. I must show him the way. Lead him from the forest. He's gotten very, very lost. I should've never left him.

Wicked little tart, with rancor in her heart, deceitful, treacherous, tricky, weaving a web of hateful lies and pretty promises. Sweet tawny thighs. Tempting succulent flesh. My William is only a man after all.

Louses in the meal, the lot of them! Squish one and there's another and another and another… Filthy vermin! They burrow and gorge and tear…devouring everything that is good. Crush them all!

I see her clear as day reflected in the carriage glass. She's in chains.

My heart soars. Mustn't dawdle. No time to waste. There's much to do. It's left to me to set things right.


	13. In the Time of Wolves: Forever

**Summary: **Whispers in the night.

**Rating: FRT:** Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 2,213.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell with assistance from The Lady Merlin, Shakensilence & Tamoline.

**Character:** Willow.

**Episodes:** #095: Forever with strong ties to #026 Innocence.

**Pairing:** None of any import to the plot.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

**Author's Note:** Written for the Which Witch Fication. Willow has a memory of Joyce being more of a mother to her than her own, after Joyce's death.

* * *

**In the Time of Wolves**

* * *

Even this feels off-center. Tilted out of kilter. This is where I belong. I fit here. It should feel right. I'm swaddled in warm, soft, snuggly bedding with a warm, soft, snuggly Tara pressed against my side, as comfortable in my discomfiture as humanly possible. We fit. This fits.

Dawn even fits, in that skewy, crooked, cockeyed way that teenagers always do. Churning things up, spinning them off—not out of meanness—just because. She might not be perfectly right—what with the whole 'I'm actually a vibrant, viridian ball of light that opens the doorway to an extra-dimensional Hell' revelation—but she isn't the problem. She's just distraught. We all are. It's even expected that she be a little wrongheaded. The poor girl just lost her mother. She has a pass on being wigged. We all do, but I—

Everything's so wrong I wonder if anything will ever be right again. Nothing lines up. It should be simple. Even with everything that's wrong, some things should just fit. Stuff used to fit, but this is—

I feel so helpless. I hate it. It's like, if one thing that was so stable can be torn away, other things can go away too. Important things. I can't. I don't know how to deal with that. I need to know that everything, that _something, _even just _one thing_ is dependable. There has to be something reliable. Something I can count on. I—

'I' nothing. Nothing's reliable, except bad things. Bad things will always come. They'll come and we can't—

Finishing that thought will be a mistake, I know it will. I snatch at another. Any thought just to keep myself from spiraling further into this pit of—

I wonder if Buffy's at home. How can she even stand being there? I felt—that place—it's steeped in—every room holds a memory of Joyce. Not 'a'—not a single memory, but _memories_, so many memories. I kept thinking that she was in the kitchen—that she'd come into the dining room and join us. I kept seeing things, remembering things, even smelling things. One time I even thought I caught a whiff of Joyce's perfume.

Haunted, and we were all there, the whole gang sitting around the dinner table. What could be more normal? I can't even imagine being there alone. I hope Buffy has somewhere to go, if only just for tonight.

I remember…

I went to the Summers' house hoping to see Buffy. I knew she'd talk with me and I needed to talk. She wasn't home, but Joyce was there. I told her I'd come back, I didn't want to intrude—all the usual stuff that never worked with Joyce—but I said it because it was the polite thing to do.

That could be a memory of any one of dozens of times. I have one time in mind, but Joyce—

Joyce was always so kind. She always opened her door to me. She always had time for me. Even when she was obviously busy, she made time. That thing Spike said about her always having a nice cuppa for him. I get that. She was like that. Stupid Xander.

I remember…

"I can't believe I was ever so in love with him," I murmur into the darkness. "Head-over-heels. Smitten. My breath used to catch when I saw his face. My heart did that funny flity, floopy thing that hearts do when they're bursting with gushiness." I turn my head to look at Tara. The floopy thing my heart does when I'm with her. This should be safe. Slow, metered breathing comes from the pallet on the floor. Tara seems conked too.

I'm afraid to move to see what time it is, but I can't help wondering. I know it feels like forever. Forever flirting with sleep and never really finding it. Maybe if I appease my ghost.

Not that I think that this ghost has anything to do with Joyce. Ghosts are angry, spiteful things, full of hidden agendas. Imaging anything like that ever coming from her is just—it's just absurd.

No. This ghost is _mine_. Maybe if I pay it some attention, it'll go away. That sounds silly, but—

My head hurts. I'm so tired I could… Sigh.

"That seems like so long ago." The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize how silly they are. A convulsive little snicker sets Tara to harrumphing in her sleep. She rolls away, smacking her lips and making cute little noises like a grumpy Teddy bear. "It's only been three years," I admit to her back. At least I'm safe. I think. "I loved him so much. It's funny. Time is funny. At the time the pain was so bad I thought I might die from it. Now I love him like a friend—like a brother—a delinquent brother." I snicker again, just a puff. That wasn't that bad. I wasn't talking loud. I wasn't really even talking, just murmuring under my breath to my friend, the ghost. This time Tara doesn't stir at all. That's bad. I fall silent to listen. I think she's awake.

It takes a few moments, but predictably she turns over. The backs of her fingers caress my cheek. "I'm sorry," she says in a thready voice. Her body tenses. She props herself on an elbow. "I shouldn't—" I'm not sure what makes her think that. "I should let you—" Her weight shifts. I catch her wrist as she tries to roll away, saying, "If you want me to leave, I can…" She trails off with a leading 'can' like she isn't sure what she'll do. I feel like a heel.

"No. It's okay," I whisper.

After a moment's thoughtful consideration, she settles in beside me, plumping her pillow before she lies down. I stare up at the ceiling. The seconds tick by. My eyes do that funny, spotty, speckley thing, trying to resolve the shadows. I blink the weirdness away, feeling well and truly stuck.

She looks at me, scanning my face, trying to figure me out. She's worried. That's not good. I'm not sure I've told her this. It's not the sort of thing you're supposed to talk about, especially when the boy in question is still a big part of your life. If I do this, I have to make her understand. I'm not sure—

This seems as good a place to start as any: "I had a crush on Xander for years." Schoolgirl crushes are definitely a thing. Making the admission still takes no small effort. "I used to keep his picture—" My voice cracks. I stammer to recover, "I-I put it in my pillowcase." That was too much, but I have to explain. "I thought if I did, I'd dream about him. I thought—" An embarrassed titter slips out unchecked. I can't help it. "It was so silly." Self-deprecation laces my tone. I make light of what was at the time the most heart-wrenching thing I'd ever experienced and it doesn't hurt a bit. I still remember it. I remember…

"I had to hold it together," I mumble, my tone, such as it is, changed for the worse. "Mine wasn't the only problem. We had too many problems for mine to matter much." Poor Buffy. I thought my problems were bad. Her's were awful.

I stop to consider whether I said that last part aloud. I'm so sleepy. I think I mumbled it, but just in case, I add, "Poor Buffy. She gave herself to Angel and he laughed in her face. He was so mean. My problem was tiny by comparison, but it hurt."

This has nothing to do with anything, but everything to do with this. I have to explain for Tara to understand the rest.

Of course, at the rate I'm going, she should understand exactly nothing. "I'm getting ahead of myself," I say by way of an apology. Linear would be good—like with the events all in order. That helps with the understanding, or so I hear. "What happened was: Xander and Cordy were kissing. Xander's not very bright. They were right there in the library, standing in the stacks. My heart felt like it was—" I quirk the corner of my mouth. "I couldn't stay there. Not with him—not with _them_ in the same room. This was before we knew about the thing with Angel. We had no idea that he'd gone all Big Bad on us. He was just missing. We had another Big Bad to deal with. We were in research mode. There was this thing called the Judge. Big blue demon, really ugly, awful. Spike and Dru—"

I stop. I got sidetracked again. I know Tara knows this stuff already. We've talked about most of it. I had to tell her. She had to know what she was getting herself into. Anything else would've been unfair.

She knows enough. I get to the point. "Buffy said she was going to stop by home. I thought maybe I might catch her. Not that I knew what to say, but helping her with her problems has always been better than facing my own. That, and—well…her place was always much, much better than my place, even without all the 'grrr'." Another soft snicker slips out. It must sound like I'm having lots more fun than I am. "You've met my mother." Briefly, but briefly is always enough with Mom. I love her, but she has this way of looking at people like they might make interesting subjects.

I sneak a peek. Tara has a smirk on her face, just the barest twisting of lips. She remembers.

My mouth twists a little too before I resume my story and my study of the speckley, staticy, shadowy ceiling. "Buffy wasn't home when I got there. I tried to get away. I didn't want to bother Joyce. I ended up with a cup of tea and cookies for my trouble. Joyce always fed us. I think she was convinced that we were starving—well, not Xander. She wasn't that deluded, but she fed him too…and he always ate like a horse. I think that dispelled the illusion."

I wish I knew what time it was. The lights outside always make it so hard to tell. I know it's late, or early depending on how you look at it.

"Anyway," I whisper, eager to finish, "Joyce just sat with me. She didn't prod. She wasn't that sort of person." The presence of the past tense hurts. It feels like a slip. I hurry past it. "My mother would just see me frown and use it as an excuse to interrogate and psychoanalyze me both at once. I always smiled around my mom. I still do. It's safer." Buffy's mom had been different. "Joyce waited for me. That sounds uncomfortable, but it really wasn't, or not any more than it would've been had I been by myself. I was weepy and miserable and she held my hand." Alone would've been worse. Joyce had a gift for making people feel better. She was kind and gentle, yet formidable when she needed to be. She made me feel safe. She had that gift. And I love her.

A lump forms in my throat. Tears blur my eyes. I clear my throat, clamp my eyelids shut to soothe the ache and make myself go on. "When I finally did manage to talk, she mostly just listened. She didn't wig when I admitted to loving Xander, even though he was my best and oldest friend. I guess that's okay, but it bothered me. I was afraid that I'd lose him. She reassured me. She thought it'd be alright, that things would work out, and they have. She didn't tell me one of those 'when I was your age' stories. She did that sometimes, but not then."

I'm blathering. All of that came out in a rush. I'm avoiding, flitting around what I really want to say. I take a breath, hoping vainly that it'll clear my aching head. My eyes burn with unshed tears. I steel myself. I have to finish.

"She really didn't give me any advice at all that night," I whisper, my voice thin as tissue. The stupid lump hangs in my throat, feeling twice as big. Like a rock. "What I needed more than anything was for someone to listen." I swallow, like I think swallowing a rock has some possibility of working or helping or— "She did and I remember thinking how lucky Buffy was…which is silly because I was lucky too." I sigh. At least that works. It helps.

A soft, tremulous voice breaks the silence, in the wake of my own. "We all were." Tara's watery eyes glisten in the gloom. She offers me a weak, self-conscious smile, so vulnerable the dam inside me crumbles. Tears leak through at first. Just a trickle. With a touch, my fretting turns to anguished torrents. She shatters my resolve.

I cling to her, bowing my head, burying my face to smother the sound. I won't wake Dawn. I can't wake her. That'd be so selfish. I can't be selfish. I'm just so afraid.


	14. Stone: Dead Things

**Summary:** The grave touches her.

**Rating:** Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 100.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Spike.

**Characters:** Buffy.

**Episode** #113: Dead Things.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Stone**

* * *

Even in darkness, the stone glistens. My fingertips slide down its polished surface. Edges catch. The words 'devoted' and 'beloved' grate my skin.

Dank cool earth bleeds through my jeans. I sit, numb, waiting, pondering…

_Why?_

His approach rattles my nerves long before he arrives.

"You shouldn't be here," he whispers, resting his hand on my shoulder.

That's what he always says with his touch, cold and smooth like stone. Sallow skin, sallow heart…

Where then? The floor of his crypt, an alley, a condemned house…what would make him happy?

Stiffening to smother a cringe, I mumble, "I know."


End file.
